I Love Luci
by Red Tape Will Drive You Nuts
Summary: Just what does Lucifer get up to when the boys aren't around? Set in Season 5, of course. Newest Chapter: Lucifer visits the DMV.
1. Morning Coffee

Coffee was old, reminded him of good times past. He liked it. He made it a point to get some every time he came to Earth, and since the place was about to go up in smoke, he drank a cup every day. His vessel liked it, too – it seemed Nick had been a bit of a caffeine addict before their little rendezvous. It was the only thing that made him quit his wailing about his wife and his baby, so it was a win-win. He didn't like humans, not in the least, but the bags of flesh made good coffee.

The coffee shop was on the corner, and it was the only building in shape – the others were rotting away on their foundations. Of course, it hadn't helped when he had arrived in town the day before and done a little redecorating, but they hadn't been in very good condition to begin with. He wasn't a saint, but they couldn't blame him for shoddy architecture or substandard materials.

Tsk, tsk.

There were sentries posted around town, new ones fresh out the pit. They'd needed vessels, which was why he'd come to this place – small, quiet, and just the right size to disappear without too much fanfare.

Something crunched under his shoe. It was a rib, and a pretty small one. He frowned and pulled his shoe off, trying to shake the flesh from the grooves on the bottom, but it wouldn't go. Children's flesh was particularly sticky; he would need a new pair. He sighed and dropped the shoe beside the dismembered torso, continuing down the block.

The bell dinged when he opened the door, and he smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Mornin', Tom."

The man behind the counter jumped, knocking over a stack of cups. He bent to pick them up, nearly knocking down another stack in his haste to put them back.

"I see you've kept the place in ship shape." He ran a finger along the counter, pleased when it came away dust-free. "You even kept the bell. I gotta tell you, Tommy, this kind of commitment to customer service is a rare thing indeed. I really appreciate the hospitality."

Tom looked around the shop, blinking too much and trembling. "Th-thanks," he finally said. "I was…I was employee of the m-month this March."

Lucifer nodded, his lips pressed together in a sorrowful smile. "Mmm. Well, I'll have a caramel mochachino, Tommy boy. Lots of foam."

Tom nodded, dropping the cup twice before getting started, mixing the milk and the coffee.

"Have you lived here your whole life, Tom?"

He hesitated before answering. Lucifer didn't mind. Human were skittish by nature. "Yeah," he said. "Born and raised. Heh."

"I don't remember where I was born and raised," Lucifer said. "It was warm, I know that, and I got kicked out a while ago, but as far as childhood memories go, I got nothing."

"Oh," Tom said. He added more milk to the cup. "Sorry."

Lucifer looked up at him, gazing intently. "Thank you for that, Tom."

Tom gave a weak and fleeting smile before handing him the cup. "Do you want a straw?"

Lucifer smiled. He looked down into the cup, and his smile faded. Tom saw his expression change and backed up, bumping into the cappuccino machine.

"Where is my cocoa power, Tom?"

"There's no more, sir," he said. He was on the verge of tears.

"No more?"

"No, sir," he said. "We were already close to out before you came, and I can't order any m-more…" Tears were streaming down his face. "But I have cinnamon powder. I can give you that. Yeah. And we have coupons, you can get a free cinnamon hot chocolate with your next purchase if you-"

Lucifer twisted his hand and Tom's head twisted until it faced the back wall. He crumpled to the floor with a thud. Lucifer wiped his face and his hand came away bloody. Some of the blood had landed in his cup, as well, dotting the white foam with red specks. It wasn't cocoa powder, but…

"This'll do."

The bell jingled as he left the shop.


	2. A Horse of A Different Color

**Set season 5, during "The Devil You Know."**

* * *

They were smelly things, horses. He had never ridden one, and couldn't imagine what humans saw in them; they attracted flies, stomped out all the grass, and shat where they stood. He supposed they had once been good for transport, but now? With cars and trains and trucks, why they remained alive was a mystery to him.

Then again, this _was _humans he was talking about. One had to consider their general inclinations.

The stable was large and full to capacity. The smell of horseshit was strong, and Lucifer wrinkled his nose, the hay under his feet masking the sounds of his steps. He walked among the stalls, peering into each one. Most of the horses were brown, a few were black, and one was white as Michael's soul. Lucifer smiled at this one, tapping the stall door with his finger.

"I like you," he said.

A demon appeared behind him. He didn't bother turning around.

"Again?"

He whistled. The horse shook its head and gave a small whinny.

"Yes." The demon spoke cautiously. This was wise. "They're coming."

He turned to face the demon, a bemused expression on his face. "I hope none of my entourage leaked anything to the paparazzi."

"It was Pestilence," the demon said. "They found him. They have the ring."

All traces of amusement vanished from Lucifer's face, and he slipped his hands into his pockets, a regretful smile tugging at his lips. "Mmm. I trust everything else is still in place?"

"Of course." The demon backed away until his shoulders touched the stall behind him. The horse inside spluttered and shook its mane. "Everything is set."

"Good." He was jovial again. He looked around. "You haven't been back here, I trust?"

"Not since I first departed. I was instructed not to return."

"Excellent." He sighed. "I've been a bit stressed lately, you know? Could use a bit of amusement. Got to stop and admire the handiwork every once in a while. Don't you think?"

The demon hesitated. "I-"

"What about you? Fancy a lark?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you go ahead and ring the doorbell. Let's see what happens, eh?"

The demon smiled. "What did you have in mind?"

Lucifer played with the stubble on his chin, his lips pursed. Without warning, he snapped his fingers. The demon's was suddenly outfitted in army fatigues. His nametag read FORDMAN.

"I had nearly forgotten that name," he said. "I've been Brady for so long."

"I'm sure your dear auntie remembers it."

"Is the mother dead?"

"Mmm. Killed and stuffed in an armoire, of all things. And by a most unusual creature, too. I don't quite know what it was." Lucifer thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No matter. Aunite Harriet inherited the place from her father. I'm sure your vessel remembers."

"Let's have a little family reunion."

Lucifer showed his teeth. "Let's."

The demon disappeared around the way, headed for the main house. Lucifer turned back to the white horse, sighing.

"You're such a lovely thing," he said. He waved at it, one finger at a time, and it changed colors, from white to green.

He leaned against a post, listening. When he heard footsteps, he disappeared.

"Whitney, what…" Harriet ran after him, slowing down once inside the barn. "How can you be here? You died…"

"No, Auntie Harriet, I'm right here. I was undercover, special operations. But I'm back now."

She was crying, her hands clasped over her mouth. "My god." She wrapped her arms around the demon, kissing his cheek. "I'm so glad you're home. It's a miracle."

"Yeah." The demon cried as well, his breathing hitching like a toddler's. "It is."

Lucifer was impressed, he had to admit; Azazel had chosen well when he sent this demon to Stanford. Shame he was gone. The coal of hatred he held for Dean Winchester kindled for a moment.

"I suppose you want to know where she is, your mother. And your old girlfriend? Oh, what was her name-"

"I'm not so concerned about her just now." He smiled, warm and honest. Invisible in the darkness, Lucifer raised his eyebrows. Perhaps he ought to send this demon to ask Sam to say yes. "I stopped by my parents place. And my mom…" A stray, sparkling tear rolled down his cheek. "Well, I was wondering whether you still had Sherman."

"Oh," she said. She was a bit confused, Lucifer sensed. And uneasy. "Well, yes, he's…"

"Could I take him for a ride? For old times' sake?"

"But-"

"Please," he said. "Ride with me."

He opened the stall before she could speak again, leading the green horse out. It whinnied, trying to shrink away from him.

Harriet gasped, tripping over her own feet. "Whitney, that horse, it's-"

"You colored him green, Auntie Harriet?" The demon's voice was gleeful and deep. "Whatever for?"

"I didn't-"

"Eh, that was me."

Lucifer stepped out of the shadows, shrugging. "What?" he said. "It's a good color, I think."

"Who're y-"

"Oh, that's my new boss," the demon said, everything human gone from his smile. "I started out in the minor leagues, but I've been promoted, you see. Put in a lot of hard work. Hit the big time. Gonna change the world."

Harriet, who knew she was in deep shit now, tried to run out the stable door. Lucifer held out his hand and she froze, whimpering.

"Now, now, Dirty Harriet, hang on. You're nephew here's been on the battlefield with me for years. Played a vital role helping our side win. You should show him some respect, don't you think?"

"I…I…"

"You should go for a ride with me, Auntie."

She stumbled toward one of the stalls, fumbling with the latch for almost a minute before getting it open. She climbed onto the horse without bothering with a saddle.

Lucifer nodded his approval. "I do love a woman who can ride bareback."

She kicked the horse's side and it took off, disappearing into the darkness. Lucifer watched silently.

"Should I catch up?"

"I think so," he said. "But take some friends with you, huh? Give them a taste of Kansas blood. They may taste a bit more yet."

The demon smiled, climbing onto the horse. In the distance, hounds howled and barked, getting closer.

"And Brady?"

The demon paused, preparing to kick.

"Hurry back to Niveus. Don't want to keep the guests of honor waiting."

"Understood."

The army man on the green horse galloped out the door, smacking the horse's rear with his hand. The absurdity of the scene pleased him, and he smiled, touching each of the stalls as he walked toward the exit. The horses dropped dead, one by one.

Lucifer sighed heavily, clapping his hands.

"Detroit it is, then."

* * *

**Hope everyone is enjoying so far! I love Lucifer as a character, and hope to include lots more chapters, definitely not in order. Review, please!**


	3. And That's Terrible

**Set just before "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid." Also, an homage to one of my favorite corners of the net. Enjoy!**

* * *

These roadblocks were becoming...bothersome.

They helped to build character, he supposed. Fostered a can-do attitude. Made victories sweeter. He could respect the process, the notion of earning your cookies. Picking the locks on his unseemly little cage had been nothing but a series of roadblocks, red tape. Insurmountable Waist High Fences. He smiled. He did love that particular website; he had spent hours browsing the day before, neglecting some duties. He had looked up and it was dark, nearly midnight, and there he had been, still reading. Perhaps he would consider keeping the Wi-Fi on after the curtain fell on this fine show.

But back to business.

They were in Wyoming, holed up in the basement of a bakery. Hunters. There was a devil's gate nearby, if he wasn't mistaken. Saw quite a bit of traffic over the last few years, too. He had planned to hold this shindig at another venue, but this would do in a pinch. It even had a ring of poetic justice to it. Literary symmetry.

They had sent the townspeople away somewhere, and had painted their walls with Enochian warding symbols. He pressed his face against the glass, surveying the empty dining room. He scanned the symbols for mistakes, little gaps. He found none.

Castiel.

"Shark Pool for you, little Cassie," he said, sighing.

He closed his eyes and a demon appeared beside him.

"I can't," it said. "Hex bags."

Lucifer rolled his eyes in a slow circle. They landed on the demon, who recoiled.

"You're a middle manager." He lifted an eyebrow. "You've got the appropriate security clearance, do you not?"

"This is different," it said softly, resigned to its fate. "These bags, their contents were assembled with a demon's design. Ruby. These hunters, they must have stolen them from her while she lived, or-"

"The Winchesters," Lucifer finished. He stretched his back, breathing frost onto the window. "The stage hogs of our feature presentation." His mouth turned down at the corners. "Busy little birds, I see."

"We could always-"

The demon's eye sockets flashed white and his vessel dropped to the ground, dead as the demon who'd possessed him.

"Fine," Lucifer said. He hadn't wanted to alert them, but it seemed he had no choice. "A grand entrance."

His fingers tapped out an ancient rhythm on his thigh – or, rather, Nick's thigh – and a grizzly bear materialized in the street behind him. He turned and appraised it, a small smile touching his lips. Everything was better with bears, after all.

"Alright," he said, waving at it and stepping aside. "Go ahead."

It growled in defiance, but was powerless to stop. It charged forward, giving a great whimper as its head crashed through the glass. The shards of the broken window flew in all directions. A few cut into Nick's arms and legs, and he screamed inside their head.

"Hush now," Lucifer said, yanking the glass out of his Nick's shoulder. "You won't want to miss this."

The bear was unconscious now, its throat open and hemorrhaging. Lucifer stepped through the window and around it, his shoes crunching.

"Hello," he called. "Anyone home?"

There was activity, a flurry of movement and hushed voices rising from the basement. He leaned against a refrigerated display case, crossing one ankle over the other. He examined his nails, picking at a small scab on his thumb. He noticed a bell on the counter and rang it, the tinny sound echoing off the surfaces of the room.

"Don't be shy." They were moving furniture, probably trying to block a door. How quaint. "Come on out and say hello."

He waited, but they didn't respond, didn't come out, didn't even speak. A deep scowl set into his face.

He could go down. Ought to. They really shouldn't be a problem.

But Castiel. And those Winchesters. The hex bags.

They might be up to something.

He closed his eyes, looking into the basement. There were six of them, four men, two women. The two women were the leaders, he sensed. It was likely that they were the ones who had hidden it, and the townspeople. The other four were just back up. Muscle.

Cannon fodder.

He smiled, and snapped his fingers.

There was a piercing scream, the kind tears the throat that releases it, and he let out a low giggle, snapping again. The movement started up again – the furniture scraping against the floor – and the women emerged, covered in blood, both brunettes.

The older one cocked her head, placing a hand on her hip. "You rang?"

He snapped his fingers. The only remaining man groaned, stumbling up the stairs and into the storefront, shaking.

"Now," Lucifer said. "Let's get down to business. I believe you've got one of my Plot Coupons."

"Do we?" The younger woman shrugged, but he wasn't fooled; she was terrified out of her wits. She reminded him of Dean Winchester, in an oblique way. "We have so much shit we've taken off fuckers like you, don't we Lela?"

"Mmm," Lela said. This one was more seasoned, though still afraid. He didn't hold it against her. He was the devil, after all. "That we do. Why don't you describe it for us. We'll check inventory and get back to you."

Lucifer made a triangle with his fingers and pressed the apex against his lips. "You don't have it, do you?"

"Of-"

"Don't," he said dangerously. Lela's mouth snapped shut. "I've had my fill of this little obstacle course, ladies and gentleman. Time to hand it over."

"Why should we?" the young one screamed. "Why should we do any-"

Chunks of her splashed onto the refrigerated case, blocking the view of the pies inside.

"I'll get to it one way or another," he said. "And to them. Know that. But you don't have to die. Not today, anyway."

"Fuck you-"

He placed his thumb against his middle finger.

"Wait!"

"Rex-"

"It's in the trap," he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. He had been quite close to one of the others downstairs, Lucifer knew. "In the cemetery. We put it there to keep the demons from getting to it. We didn't really think you would actually-"

"Rex-"

He was covered in her a moment later. It seemed he had no screams in him; he simply let out another moan.

"And the fine citizens of Mayberry?"

"A mausoleum," he said, sliding to the floor. He no doubt welcomed death, if only to avoid sleep. "The biggest."

Lucifer walked over and patted him on the head. "Now, was that so bad?"

The man didn't reply.

Lucifer pressed his lips together. "See you, Rex." He started for the window, stepping over the bear's hind leg.

"Wait!"

He turned, looking back at Rex.

"Aren't you going to kill me?"

Lucifer looked up and to the left. "No. No, I don't think so."

He looked dazed, his eyes unable to decide on a place to land. "But…why not?"

"Not in the mood," Lucifer said. He smiled wanly. "But look on the bright side – it'll make one hell of a story to tell at parties, huh?"

* * *

He had to admit he was impressed.

Iron lines and ties. All sorts of clever little enchantments, tricks, traps. And a hundred and fifty square miles in diameter. It was quite an achievement, especially for a human. No demon would have a prayer of getting into or out of this thing without…well, without _him_.

He stepped over the first track.

The place seemed to resist him, but it didn't matter – he was no demon. He started for the mausoleum, shooting annoyed glances at the weeds he had to wade through as he went.

He arrived a few moments later.

It was almost twenty feet tall and half again as wide, with swirly marble and a fence and dead flowers and angel carvings and everything. Lucifer examined it, bemused – the place was like Buckingham Palace. And all for one dead man.

Humans.

Curious, he looked at the name.

_Elijah Moriarty_

1871-1922

_The Word of the Lord Flowed from His Hands_

Something about the last line bothered him, bothered him immensely, and it was unable to say precisely what. The man hadn't been a prophet – he knew who they all were, the little cheats – so it was likely some clever little turn of phrase some undertaker had thought up. Nice words for a nice mausoleum. Nothing more.

The hairs on the back of Nick's neck raised, and Lucifer was suddenly chilled, inside as well as out.

Time to finish this and leave this place.

He leaned against the mausoleum door. It broke with a great crack, and the people screamed inside.

"That's right," he said. "Daddy's home."

He threw the chunks of stone behind him and felt the ground shake as they struck the earth. Dust blew out of his path as he walked inside. They shrunk against the wall like cornered rats.

"Where did they put it, class?" He touched a candle holder, and a flame appeared even though there was no candle. "Don't make me give you detention."

A child, a boy, pointed at the wall above Lucifer's head. Lucifer turned and spotted it, resting on the still above the door frame. The stone. He picked it up, fingering it before slipping it into a pocket.

He knelt in front of the child, pleased. "Thank you very much, Alex," he said. "You're very smart." He reached into another pocket and pulled out a piece of candy, handing it to the kid.

Nobody could say he was _completely _heartless, now, could they?

"Let's go, people," he said. "Single file line." He turned and walked out, pausing when he realized they weren't following.

"Must you all make everything such an endeavor?" He rolled his eyes. There was growling and snarling inside and the people poured out, whimpering and crying. The hellhounds stayed close at their backs.

"Now," Lucifer said, "onward and forward, children. We've got a bit of a walk ahead of us."

The procession lasted for almost twelve hours, and it was nearly three in the morning when they arrived at the center near the devil's gate. Good thing, too; he was on a tight schedule, and hadn't wanted to wait another day.

"Let's form a half circle, class, around me." He stood in front of the gate, hands extended. He didn't have to use the hounds this time; they formed the semicircle without fanfare. Perhaps they were too tired. When they were done, he smiled, glancing at his watch. Ten 'till.

"Zode e rei," he began. "La fre ta mei lai de es, ba ba en doi."

He knelt, digging a small hole with his hands. When it was about a foot deep, he stopped and dug his nails into Nick's hands, drawing blood. He put the stone in his bloody palm, making sure to coat it before dropping it in. He covered it with dirt and stood, dusting his hands on his pants.

A great wind came and the people cried out. Lucifer took a great breath, then released it. Like dominoes, the people collapsed, until they were laid out in the same half circle they'd been standing in.

"Rise, witnesses," Lucifer said to the night. "The transfer has posted to your account." He grinned. "Time to testify."

In cemeteries near and far, graves stirred.

"Well," he said aloud. "That's done."

And then he was back at the bakery, stepping over the bear. It was probably nothing, just a bit of discomfort left over from the words on the tomb, but it was better to be overzealous and paranoid than…

Than what, exactly?

Dead?

He couldn't say.

He searched the basement, looking for anything that might be cause for worry, but found nothing, apart from the hex bags that had kept all of his entourage out of the club. He burned them, watching the flames lick the cloth and pondering Elijah Moriarty and his godly hands.

When they were gone, he ambled back into the store front. He wiped the glass clean of the younger huntress' blood, peering at the cakes inside. An idea occurred to him, a fine idea, and he went in search of a cart.

He found one and returned with it, slipping behind the counter and opening the refrigerated cases. One by one, he placed cakes on the cart.

Forty cakes, to be exact.

When they were loaded, and pushed the cart out the front door by the handle, whistling as he went.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I really enjoy secondary-character one-shots, and this series will likely go on for quite some time. Don't forget to review!**


	4. Window Number Four

**Takes place during the events of "My Bloody Valentine." In another location, of course.**

* * *

Things had changed, it seemed.

The changes were small, and of little consequence to himself in particular, but significant, all the same. They had resisted him before – humans were easily fooled in the initial stages of an operation, but boy howdy, did they scratch like wet cats when their eyes were finally opened – but their resistance had always been futile, too little, too late. And in most ways, they were and always would be the same. His mission was in no _real_ danger. How could it be? It was written, and in his day, things written never failed to come to pass.

But he could not deny that things had changed.

He had laughed at first when he'd seen them. He'd been in an old warehouse, giving out orders when they swooped down on him with their black helicopters and armored cars, weapons drawn. He supposed they imagined they'd take him clean, interrogate him in some dark room like a second rate terrorist who hadn't had time to eat a gun before being captured. Their flesh on the walls showed them how wrong they really were.

He left a few alive to warn whoever was unfortunate enough to collect them, and went on his merry way, sure they'd be smart enough to give him a wide berth in the future.

But they'd come back.

By then he was in Jerusalem, seeking a jar of very special oil. They came after him again, this time with some absurd bombs. They'd dipped the little iron projectiles in holy water and rigged them to TNT or plastique or whatever the kids were calling it these days. Little bottles wrapped in rags had come flying in through the windows, and he fought not to lose his cool as the building collapsed around him and the holy oil spilled all over the place.

The entire village had felt the pain after that little stunt.

But it didn't end, even after that. It seemed human governments were sharing intel – most un-apocalypse-like behavior – and everywhere he went, there they were, waiting. A thousand faces of a thousand races, and each one he encountered had some new way to inconvenience him. Small black stones in Shanghai had melted the flesh from Nick's hands when he picked them up. Enchanted sand in North Africa had blinded him for three days. They'd sacrificed a virgin in Quetzalcoatl and he'd burned his feet trying to walk into Texas. It was maddening.

So they'd gone underground.

New names, new vessels for his lieutenants, business licenses, the works. There had been a moment during which he had considered simply running around and slaughtering them all by hand, but that might have unforeseen consequences. There were rules, a script to be followed. These deviations were small now, but their effects could multiply over time. And he was tired of the traps. The soles of the feet of his impromptu host were still on fire after a month. It was time for Sam to get with the program.

But all in good time.

For now, he was here.

"B302, Window four, please."

They were creepy little places, DMVs. Long lines, dozens of little windows made of bulletproof glass, forms, strange people, ugly hair. It seemed the only thing worse than automobiles was the building where they were registered.

"Window four, please!"

Smoke floated in his direction. Ah, cigarettes. Yet another wonderful human invention.

Lucifer turned to the smoking woman beside him. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said, giving her a wan smile. "Do you mind?"

She was in her mid-forties, by the looks of her. She wore pants that were far too short for her unfortunate frame, and a fat white bra strap was visible under the thin strap of her tank top. She didn't even spare him a glance.

"You want, fresh air, head on outside." Her voice belied her appearance; it was melodic and strong, and had a faint southern twang. "Smoking's allowed in here."

Lucifer grinned and crushed his little paper. "I don't like smoke, you sniveling little cunt. Put it out."

She was about the launch into quite the tirade, he sensed, but she finally looked up at him. He little paper floated to the floor.

"Please," she said. Her cigarette had burned down to the stub, but she didn't seem to notice. "Please…"

"B302, Window four, please!"

"Don't bother," he said, taking the cigarette from her hand. He put it into his mouth and swallowed it. She began to shake. "It never helps to do that."

People around them had taken notice, and those with children pulled them close. The security guard near the entrance sensed the change in atmosphere and headed his way, walking with a self-important strut.

Lucifer snapped his fingers.

Shock was an interesting thing, he thought to himself. Everyone had seen, but for a moment they turned back to their activities and tried to keep going. It was a full minute before the meaningless chatter of strangers in close quarters came to a complete halt, and even after that, a woman covered in the guard's blood dug through her purse. Probably looking for her ticket.

Perhaps she was B302.

"As quaint as this place is, I'm in a bit of a hurry." His voice resonated in the silence. He liked the sound, so he spoke a little louder. "You see, a friend of mine will be arriving shortly. An older fellow – eyesight's going, I think – who usually rides a rather pale horse, but insists upon driving this time around. I know it's in bad form to cut, but is there any way I could persuade you to…well, service me first?"

He turned to the blood-covered woman digging through her bag.

"Do you mind, B302?"

She shook her head, still digging.

He smiled and walked over to window four.

"Hello," he said, passing her the vehicle registration form and five applications for a driver's licenses. "The car's a bit old, a 1959 Cadillac. Rebuilt. Are there any other forms I'll need to fill out for that, or…"

The woman behind the window took the forms from the little silver tray and began typing the information into the computer. It was slow going at first, but before long she was typing away like she did every other day. Because shock and terror were funny things, at bottom.

"We…"

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Yes, dear?"

"W-We'll need to inspect the v-vehicle."

Talking was apparently harder to while in shock than was typing. "Don't you trust me?"

Her lips flapped as she tried to think of a reply. He didn't suppose he could kill her for that. The situation was highly unorthodox. He wasn't _unreasonable_.

"Tell you what," he said, pulling out his wallet. He handed her pictures of Brady Thompson and four others. He leaned in close and whispered. "We'll skip the inspection and the verifications and the applications and the other-fications and you can just make me these licenses and register this vehicle. It'll be our little secret, Marjorie."

She blinked at her name. She shuffled the papers for almost two minutes.

"Marjorie," he said.

She stopped shuffling.

He sighed.

She nodded and started typing.

"Good girl."

Someone made a run for the door.

He snapped his fingers.

Nobody screamed.

Tough crowd.

"It'll be just a minute, sir." She actually managed a smile.

Lucifer made fingerprints on the glass while the machine whirred and clicked. A baby coughed.

He breathed on the window and started to write his name.

"Please, sir." Marjorie was pleasantly terrified. He didn't like humans, but they sure had emotional range. "We ask that not put your fingers on the glass."

He looked around at the bloody room, then stared at her for a long moment.

"You've been working here too long, Marjorie," he said.

The printer beeped.

"Ah, good," he said. He clapped.

Everyone gasped.

"Oh, relax," he said.

"Here you go!" She put the license cards in the silver tray along with the new registration. "All done." She chuckled insanely.

"Thank you," he said.

He almost slipped in the blood on his way out, but didn't.

Outside, he walked up to a man in a leather jacket and red jeans.

He stared.

"He only has colored pants," the demon said, shrugging.

"Deliver these." Lucifer handed him the documents. "The building is clear. Bring a few others with you. Clear the lobby, and make sure none of the workers remember your faces."

"Shouldn't we just kill them, too?"

The demon doubled over in pain, grunting.

"Not unless you like holy iron in your lungs," Lucifer said. "They need real identities. They can't get into place without them."

The demon fell to the ground, coughing blood and choking.

"And we can't have Death interrupted for driving without a license."

The demon began to convulse.

"I don't trust these humans. They've hurt me. They might…complicate things for death. We must put nothing past them."

Lucifer released him.

"Now," he continued. "Get in there and get it done. No fuck ups."

The demon nodded.

Lucifer walked through the mini-mall, stopping in front of an antique shop to stare at the clocks. A large one, called a Moriarty Deluxe, was on sale.

There was that name again.

Coincidence?

He didn't believe in those.

But what, if not that?

He sighed, biting his lip, and kept walking. He was expected.

God, his feet were _killing_ him.


End file.
